


One is Enough

by sahiya



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:54:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was probably fortunate that John met Sherlock before he met the Doctor. It prepared him for the experience like nothing else could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One is Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [significantowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/gifts).



John had long since accepted that his life had taken a permanent turn for the weird the day Sherlock Holmes walked into it. He had almost got used to opening his microwave and finding human eyeballs, or realizing that the milk carton in the fridge was as likely to contain any manner of bodily fluids as it was to contain milk, or tripping over the skull first thing in the morning.

But he’d be lying if he said it didn’t give him a bit of a turn when he discovered the serial killer Sherlock had been chasing wasn’t so much a serial killer as it was an . . . alien.

“Why don’t we talk about this?” the man who called himself the Doctor was saying, even as the - good Christ - the _alien_ advanced on them. The thing was seven feet tall and plated in blue armor. John had already tried to shoot it once; the bullet had deflected off the armor and buried itself in the floor. The creature’s ire had been matched only by the Doctor’s. He’d told John very sharply to put his gun away and proceeded to attempt to open negotiations.

Negotiations were not going very well, from John’s perspective.

“I know you’re very far from home,” the Doctor went on, “and I know you’re frightened. I know how it feels, believe me. But if you just calm down and stop killing the locals, I’m sure I can give you a lift.”

The creature spat. It landed six inches from the Doctor’s boots and immediately ate through the concrete, leaving a smoking black hole behind.

“Ah,” the Doctor said, sounding more bemused than anything else. “Well, you see now, that’s what I’m talking about. I can’t just leave you here to go about putting holes in everything and everyone.”

The creature snarled. The Doctor sighed. “No, you can’t have this planet for your brood. Six billion people already live here. How is it possible the universe hasn’t figured this out yet? I can give you a lift. That’s my best offer.”

The creature snarled again, and John realized the earlier snarling had in fact been what passed for civil conversation with it. This, to judge by the darkening of the Doctor’s face, was downright insulting. Negotiations, it seemed, were officially off the rails.

There was a moment in these situations, John had found, just before everything went to hell. A moment where everything seemed to slow down, and he suddenly knew, just knew, exactly what he had to do. More than once, his or Sherlock’s survival had depended on his intuition. And right now John knew, without a doubt, that the alien creature was about to take the Doctor’s head off.

He raised his gun. This time he aimed right between its eyes.

And that was when John discovered that being splattered in alien brains was worse, far worse, than eyeballs in the fridge, blood in the milk carton, or tripping over the skull before he’d had his tea.

“What was that thing?” John asked, once he’d got done swearing and gagging.

“A Kin’ta’gransistia,” the Doctor replied. He was crouched down beside the body. “Very lost, very far from home, and very confused.”

He sounded sad, John thought incredulously. “It was going to kill you,” he pointed out, in case the Doctor hadn’t realized.

“Oh yes, I’ve no doubt,” the Doctor said. He looked up at John. “Thank you. Not that I approve of the use of brute force, but I’ve only just broken this body in, and I’d rather not give it up so soon.” John blinked. The Doctor stood. “Well, I suppose I should ring UNIT, let them know there’s clean-up to be done. Speaking of clean-up,” he added, glancing at John, “you should wash up as soon as possible. Kin’ta’gransistian blood isn’t as caustic as their spit, but it’ll still eat through your clothes eventually.”

John looked down and realized his jumper was already smoking faintly. “Oh bloody hell,” he said, because jumpers didn’t exactly grow on trees.

“Don’t worry,” the Doctor said. “My ship is just ‘round the corner. You can toss your things in the sonic washing machine, it won’t take a minute. Literally; the wash cycle’s only fifty-five seconds long.”

“Your ship,” John repeated skeptically.

“Of course,” the Doctor said. “Did you think I was lying when I offered the poor thing a ride home? Come on, then,” he added, without waiting for a reply, and led off down the street, leaving John no choice but to follow.

He wasn’t lying.

It was a good thing he’d met Sherlock first, John reflected ten minutes later, as he stood in his briefs in front of a sonic washing machine deep inside the Doctor’s ship. It’d prepared him for this like nothing else could. A ship that was bigger on the inside and traveled through space and time - that didn’t seem nearly as strange as it should have. In fact, John had the feeling he’d disappointed the Doctor a bit when he’d first walked in. He’d looked around and said, “Ah.”

“Ah?” the Doctor repeated, looking a little crestfallen, rather like Sherlock did when John failed to be impressed by something he considered impressive.

“It’s . . . very nice,” John said. “Beautiful,” he’d added, because it was, in a very alien way. “You said something about a washing machine?”

The machine beeped. John pulled his clothes - washed, dried, and pressed, with nary a speck of alien goo to be seen - out of it and dressed. Then very carefully, counting the turns and at one point, doubling back to go around what seemed to be a very large atrium, or possibly an indoor rainforest, he made his way back to the main room. There he found the Doctor on the phone, giving details to someone about where to find the body. “You might want to hurry,” he added, to whoever was on the other end. “The blood stays caustic for a good four hours after death, and you’re liable to end up with a very large hole in the ground.” He hung up. Then he spun on his heel, clapped his hands together, and said, “John! I see you found your way back, always a good sign.”

“Yes, thank you,” John said. “I should be getting back now. Sherlock’s going to wonder where I am.” Probably, at least. Almost definitely.

“Ah yes, of course. Unless . . .”

“What?” John asked, when the Doctor didn’t finish his sentence.

“Well, you see, sometimes I take people with me. Just for awhile. Friends, you know? Companions.” He rubbed his hands together, not quite looking John in the eye. “Amy and Rory were with me for a while, but they wanted to get on with their lives, and so I find myself in the market. You were good out there, cool under pressure, I’m not much fond of the gun, but I suppose no one is perfect. If you wanted to, you could travel with me awhile.”

“Travel with you,” John repeated. “In . . . this?”

“Yep. I’d have you back before you left, practically. Time machine.” He looked at John, then, hopefully.

“Right,” John said, and paused, unsure of what to say. Not that the offer wasn’t both flattering and tempting, but on the other hand - well, one was quite enough. “The thing is, Doctor, I’ve already got one mad genius to look after, and I’ve grown rather, er, attached.”

“Ohh,” the Doctor said, in an enlightened tone. “I see. I didn’t realize that’s how it was with you and Sherlock.”

“How what is? Wait,” John said, with abrupt realization, “no, no, that’s not how it is.”

“It’s all right, you know,” the Doctor said, very kindly. “It’s 2010 - it is 2010, isn’t it? - it’s 2010, no one cares anymore. You don’t have to hide it.”

“Yes, I know, but that’s not -”

“But you’re probably right,” the Doctor went on blithely, dashing around to the other side of the - the thing. He pulled a lever, flipped a switch, and turned the hot and cold knobs clockwise. “I wouldn’t want to steal you away from the great Sherlock Holmes, that would be tragic. I could ask him along, I suppose, but I suspect we’d kill each other. So, I’ll just give you a lift home, shall I?” With that, the ship gave a great shudder, and the central column started to move up and down. John grabbed hold of the railing and held on for dear life.

Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

“Here you are, then!” the Doctor said, throwing open the doors. “221B Baker Street. John Watson,” he added, sticking his hand out. “It’s been a real pleasure. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

“Yes,” John said, shaking the Doctor’s hand. “Perhaps. Er,” he hesitated, “good luck, Doctor. On finding someone new, I mean.”

“Oh, I’m sure someone will come along,” the Doctor said with a smile. “Someone always does.”

The doors to the ship swung shut. John took a hasty step backward as the noise started up again and the ship slowly faded away, blowing papers and other detritus of life with Sherlock all over the flat.

Below stairs, the front door slammed, and there was the sound of someone with ridiculously long legs taking the stairs three at a time. Sherlock blew in and then stopped, staring. “Hello,” John said.

Sherlock blinked. “You weren’t answering your mobile,” he said, rather accusingly.

“Oh,” John said, glancing down at his phone. He had, apparently, missed twelve calls from Sherlock. “I was, ah, out of range for a bit. How’s the case? Did I miss anything?”

Sherlock frowned. “Mycroft called me off it. He said he’d have me arrested if I went anywhere near it. Very suspicious.”

“A bit,” John agreed, wondering why Mycroft hadn’t been able to come up with some better way of getting Sherlock off the case. Perhaps the aliens had even him rattled. “Still, might be worth backing off. I’d bet there’s nothing more boring than jail.”

“That,” Sherlock said, dropping gracefully down onto the sofa, “is true. Even sitting here at home with you is preferable to sitting in a jail cell.” He paused, looked John up and down for the first time, and said, “Interesting. Somehow, you got back here from the other side of London in the same clothing you left in, but freshly laundered and pressed. How?”

John opened his mouth, shut it, and finally said, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Come now, John, don’t be insulting.”

“I’m not, it’s true,” John said, as he turned to go into the kitchen. After all that, he needed a cup of tea. “It was a series of very strange events involving two aliens, a time machine, and a sonic washer and dryer.”

“Fine, then!” Sherlock called from the lounge. “Don’t tell me. But I warn you, I’m going to sulk until I figure it out.”

John groaned, very quietly, and suddenly wished he hadn’t been so quick to tell the Doctor no.

But then again . . . one mad genius was so very much enough.

 _Fin._


End file.
